The Great Escape
When news arrived yesterday that a fraternity brother at UCLA was on his deathbed, a rather incredible moment we shared one January long, long ago immediately came to mind. This is another true story.
It was just going to be one twelve-pack shared between four buddies on a Saturday afternoon in January. That’s how it always used to start. But the portions were only three bottles apiece; someone in the group would soon be going on a beer run into Westwood Village.
Better make it a full case this time.
And as if we needed a further testosterone boost for illogical bravado, one member of the quartet suggested going to see the newly released cowboy-western film “Tombstone.” It was playing at the Century City Mall. Four severely buzzed young men in the primes of their lives going to see a macho movie?
Where’s the harm in that?
I know that we snuck beers and liquor into the theater. And I’m certain that we thought it was all rather inconspicuous to strangers and ticket-takers: beer cans tucked into our waistlines and pockets, flasks secured inside our socks. Yes, we had stopped at a liquor store on Santa Monica Boulevard to get whiskey. We were all-in at that point.
An entire side row was occupied by our foursome because we did that typical guy thing of having an empty seat between each of us. God forbid the horror of panted legs grazing or bare forearms touching!
Sadly, the secrecy of our clandestine drinking operation ended each time a can was opened at inconvenient, and rare, quieter moments of the flick. But who was going to tell us to stop?
We were not being disrespectful…we were just living out the scenes with Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday from our seats. Four huckleberries were there in Tombstone and at the OK Corral. The collective goal of reaching a state of suspended disbelief had been achieved.
And, in the confusion of the alcohol and popcorn and chocolate and general revelry while imagining what it would be like to make-out with Dana Delany, I lost the parking lot ticket.
Why was I even driving Ed Puchi’s red jeep? I shouldn’t have been, but maybe it was one of those lesser-of-all-evils moments when a young man foolishly decides to take responsibility because all of his buddies are even worse off (in this particular case, more shit-faced).
For their own protection, the names of the other two passengers will not be revealed. I’m willing to incriminate a dying fraternity brother, but not the living. However, here are a few hints about their identities: they were consistently poor influences on angelic me, one may have been on UCLA’s football team, and the other may have played lacrosse.
We were in line behind several other cars to pay an attendant in a kiosk when I realized that our ticket had been misplaced. The exit led to Constellation Boulevard, a street that runs parallel to Santa Monica and perpendicular to Avenue of the Stars. (FYI: This is important cartographic foreshadowing.) I was still on a high of extremely false self-confidence from the booze/movie and, with Puchi in the passenger seat of his own topless Jeep, I made a decision…
We were not going to pay the maximum fee for not having a ticket. We were going to ram the gate.
Some of you reading this now who do not know me well must be thinking “Wow, I can’t envision you doing anything crazy like that! So out of character.”
And then there are the rest of you shaking your heads and rolling your eyes saying “Seems about right.”
As the gate began to close behind the car directly in front of us, I accelerated. The impact was, even for my standards and expectations in the moment, excessively loud. It was an explosion of metal and wood. Splintered pieces of all sizes flew in every direction. We were now living a movie!
The Jeep fishtailed, almost entirely sideways, as we blasted onto Constellation heading away from Avenue of the Stars. There were chunks of wood falling off of the hood and we could hear the yelling of the attendant from behind. And we were laughing. Heartily. Well, three of us were laughing. Ed Puchi was screaming “Cuddy, what the fuck???!!!”
In for a penny, in for a pound at this point. And I believe it was at this exact moment when I noticed a police car in the rearview mirror.
Come on! What were the odds of that?!
The parking attendant was pointing at us as the LAPD cruiser slowed by the remnants of the gate. I was drunk, I was driving, and I had to make the call: pull over or go for it.
I put the pedal to the metal just as the cop hit his flashing lights and siren. This was happening.
Map Key: The Jeep is the red arrow, The LAPD is the blue arrow.
It doesn’t exist now, but at the time there was a narrow planter island on Constellation between the two traffic lanes. The same still exists on Avenue of the Stars in much larger proportions. As the cop car began closing the distance, I flipped a bitch—almost flipping Puchi’s Jeep in the process—at Century Park West and headed back past the parking garage exit.
We all looked furtively to our lefts as the police officer passed in the opposite direction on the other side of the cement median. He was motioning for us to pull over and, frankly, didn’t seem too amused.
I sped up.
My mindset was that, if we made it to Avenue of the Stars, we had a chance. I just could not pull over and give up before making it to that street. This is where years and years of experience driving in Los Angeles, especially on the Westside, came into play.
I turned right onto Avenue of the Stars with the thought of getting to Pico Boulevard and having more options. The police car’s siren seemed to dissipate just a little; we had created a minuscule gap and breathing room to allow for what would become, and I say this with the least bit of humility one can imagine, a legendary move.
The most important factor was to do something before the officer caught sight of us again. If he did, we were finished.
There was a turnaround opening through the median on Avenue of the Stars directly in front of the Century Plaza Hotel. And, rather perfectly, there was a huge delivery truck positioned on the other side ready to make a left onto Constellation. If I could make another u-turn to head back in the direction of the police car before the officer had us in view, and hide behind that truck, we might just be able to make it.
So, that’s what I did. The Jeep’s tires screeched and whined as we wound our way heading north towards Santa Monica Boulevard instead of south to Pico. And then I slammed on the brakes to conceal ourselves by the truck.
The cop car’s siren drew slightly fainter. Not much, but slightly. I waited several seconds and then, breaking even more traffic laws, made a left turn back onto Constellation from the middle lane against a red light!
What did it really matter at this point?
Which brings us to the BEST part of this entire fiasco…
We were now forced with the unenviable task of passing the spot of our prior devastation: the very parking lot exit littered with wood and metal, screws and hinges, and an apoplectic attendant now certainly joined by a small crowd of onlookers.
The one cop car had been masterfully eluded, true, but now we (or, rather, I) was wholly concerned with backups and other witnesses. My plan was to get to Century Park West, make a right, then make a left (red light or not) onto Little Santa Monica and head back to UCLA. We were so close.
At this point, on Constellation, I was maintaining the speed limit so as not to draw further attention to the red Jeep with no top and four boisterous guys sweating profusely with white knuckles gripping steering wheels and grab bars out of fear and excitement.
Fucking Puchi. I still cannot believe this happened. I’ve seen a lot in my life, but this is up there in the top grouping in terms of shock value.
As we passed the scene of the crime, and the attendant began pointing at us in a feverish manner, Ed Puchi gave him a wave. A fucking wave. A relaxed, welcoming wave that the Rose Queen would give the blanketed throngs on Colorado Boulevard from her float.
A casual, matter-of-fact, how ya doin wave.
It was incredible.
Did we keep in touch through the years? No. Did I know much about his life or his family? No. Did I often make him the butt of jokes through the years remembering certain fraternity events? Yes. Do I think he did the same for me? I hope so.
We had two years together. And that was enough to never forget him.
This song’s for you, Ed Puchi.
P.S.
One more Puchi story…
I was making out with a girl while slow dancing at a date party and he came up to us and repeated “You’re not that cool!” to me over and over again.
And he was right. I’m still not.